


Five Things McCoy Didn’t Mean That Way And One Thing He Did

by gadgetorious



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Academy Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:05:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gadgetorious/pseuds/gadgetorious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim’s hobby is willfully misunderstanding McCoy.  McCoy’s is pretending it doesn’t thrill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things McCoy Didn’t Mean That Way And One Thing He Did

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Here there be sexing and swearing.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I don’t own Star Trek, etc.  
>  **Acknowledgements:** Thanks to [](http://caitri.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://caitri.livejournal.com/)**caitri** who was my beta/partner in crime for this and actually got me to write something in the first place.

  


1.

Jim has a dorm room. There’s nothing wrong with having a dorm, but this _particular_ dorm came with a Lewis, his incredibly obnoxious roommate.

McCoy does _not_ have a dorm room. McCoy has an apartment and, probably more importantly, he does not have a roommate. It was still technically campus housing but it’s in the staff housing block and has a bathroom and a kitchen that he doesn’t have to share with two-dozen other guys and, still more importantly, _no roommate._ Ah, the perks of being a valuable Starfleet asset.

Sure, there’s only the one bedroom, but when faced with the option of taking Bones’ couch or going home to Tight-Ass McSnores-Like-A-Chainsaw, Jim picks the couch every time.

In reality, this probably had less to do with the fact that his roommate snored than it had to do with a certain falling out over said roommate’s willful refusal to acknowledge the sock-on-the-doorknob code early in their relationship.

Sitting hunched in Bones’ living room, Jim digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubs. Unfortunately, all this means he spends most nights on a lumpy couch that is several inches shy of being able to accommodate his full height. Great for his mental health; not so great for comfort.

He shuffles stiffly into the kitchen and rummages for something to eat. There’s not much. Between Bones’ busy schedule and Jim’s utter failure to give a damn they usually grab their meals in the mess. Shopping is not a priority, or even a necessity, most of the time since they usually run out of food long before they run out of booze. As a result there are long periods of empty cabinets and bare shelves between trips to the store. Jim finally settles on some sort of foil-wrapped mystery breakfast pastry, flavor unknown, and shuffles his way back out to the living room – his makeshift bedroom.

They’d never really discussed Jim moving in. It started out as an invitation to crash on the couch one night when they’d both been just this side of completely plastered and Bones hadn’t the energy or the inclination to see that Jim made it home safely but didn’t trust Jim himself with the task. That had morphed into the open invitation to crash whenever they drank together and from there into staying over whenever Jim didn’t feel like dealing with his roommate, or was just too lazy to make the walk back to his own room. These days Jim slept here more often than he didn’t. Something his stiff neck was well aware of, thank you very much.

Now however the apartment is quiet. Bones is off doing whatever it was he does when he isn’t working or with Jim. Jim had always sort of assumed that was a big fat nothing, but the fact that he is clearly alone in the apartment is evidence to the contrary.

It’s Sunday and Jim has no pressing obligations. This is good because Jim plans to spend the day moving as little as possible and possibly practicing his telekinesis. Anything to avoid actually having to get up again because dammit, it’s his day off and he’s pretty sure he’s done enough moving in past week to last him a lifetime. He is still trying to levitate the wrapper from his breakfast over to the recycler when Bones returns.

Bones glances at him as he glares at the crumpled wrapper and does a double take. “Jim, what the hell are you doing? Has the wrapper offended you in some way?”

“I’m trying to move it with my mind,” he replies, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. He doesn’t look at Bones; doesn’t look away from the wrapper. Jim’s ESP scores are abysmal but he’s never been one to let things like facts get in his way.

Bones marches across the room, snatches the foil from the coffee table and disposes of it sharply and efficiently. “There, you’ve done it. It’s a miracle of science. Just wait until Dr. Nimue hears about this one,” he grumbles.

Jim has no idea who Dr. Nimue is but that doesn’t matter. His eyes rise to meet Bones’ and he tries his best to look unimpressed. Judging by the eyebrow Bones’ quirks at him he’s fallen a bit short of the mark. Bones doesn’t give him a chance for a rebuttal; he’s across the room and bodily moving Jim toward the door before he gets his mouth open. That doesn’t last.

“Hey! What the hell?”

“Quit your squirming and come with me. I’m not carrying it in by myself.” Bones’ grip on his shoulder only tightens when he tries to pull away. Granted, he doesn’t try very hard. If Bones wants to put his hands on his body then Bones can damn well put his hands on his body.

“Whoa, _carry?!_ ” Maybe he should have tried a litter harder to get away after all.

“Yes. Carry. It’s not going to walk up here on it’s own.”

Bones’ hand is still warm on his shoulder. Neither mentions it or makes any move to rectify the despite Jim being downright docile as they make their way through the hall.

When they arrive at the front door and make their way into the bright sunshine Jim has to shield his eyes. Fuck, he is not ready for this today. For all that it’s nearly noon he’s still hovering in that vegetative state somewhere between being hung-over and completely sober but just plain lazy. He’s in sweats and t-shirt and for Christ’s sake Bones didn’t even let him put shoes on before he frog marched him out here and pressed him into hard labor.

It just gets worse when he sees what he’s supposed to be carrying.

A couch.

He doesn’t even try to suppress his groan. “Bones, tell me this is your idea of a sick joke.” That thing looks like it weighs a metric ton and the pavement is already hot under his bare feet.

His only answer is the look that Bones shoots him, but it’s a very eloquent look and Jim gets the message loud and clear. There is no mistaking _‘No, this is not a joke. Now quit whining and grab an end.’_ Jim complies. What can he say, he’s completely whipped and that’s the saddest thing he’s ever heard because he’s not even _getting any._

It takes him about a dozen steps before he realizes there is no way this monstrosity is getting to Bones’ third floor apartment in any way other than the stairs and he nearly drops the damn thing right then.

Still, it takes until about half way up the second flight of stairs before Jim is convinced he’s going to die. Stuck in the middle of the stairs while Bones navigates his end over the handrail above him, the muscle in his back is starting to twitch and he’s definitely starting to sweat. Still, he’s doing better than he’d hoped and he’s almost half way there. He probably would have been fine if Bones hadn’t starting heckling him.

“My God, Jim. Can we pick up the pace a bit? My elderly grandmother would have this upstairs by now.”

If Jim had a free hand he would flip him the bird. He settles for shooting Bones he dirtiest look he can muster. It’s pretty damn dirty. Bones is not intimidated.

“Come on, Jim. Throw your back into it.” Clearly intimidation didn’t work; Jim leers instead. He gives Bones the sexiest, filthiest, most suggestive look in his arsenal; a look that says very clearly that, given the opportunity, he _would_ throw his back into it and probably a few other body parts besides.

Bones scowls in response but he turns pink and doesn’t say another goddamn word until they have the couch safely settled against the wall in the apartment. This one is not only long enough to stretch out on, but it also folds out into a surprisingly comfortable bed.

When he does turn to Jim and suggest they now carry the old couch downstairs to get rid of it he finds himself with a face-full of cushion for his troubles.

 

2.

Contrary to popular belief, Jim does not spend every free waking moment flirting, fucking and fighting. Okay, so he flirts. A lot. And he’s rather fond of sex; it’s true. He does not, however, go looking for someone to beat the shit out him just for the thrill of it. Sometimes trouble finds him. Yeah, trouble seems to find him a good deal more often than it finds most people but _c’est la vie_ and all that. The fact remains he doesn’t seek it out on purpose and he resents McCoy’s insinuation to the contrary.

Insinuation. Hell, they passed insinuation so long ago he can’t even see it anymore. They’re barreling full speed ahead into righteously indignant lecture territory now. Jim suspects that if McCoy weren’t so aware of the fact that he’d just had to reset his jaw he’d have received a good smack to the head by now. At the rate Bones is working himself into a tizzy he still might. Heh, tizzy.

The worst part is he can’t even defend himself. He can’t talk. All he can do is sit like a sullen schoolboy with a chemical cold pack pressed to his face and listen to Bones rail about death wishes and misspent youth and he _hates_ it.

 _No,_ thinks Jim, _the_ worst _part is that when Bones gets this worked up he’s not exactly gentle._ His ‘tender ministrations’ are going to leave bruises on Jim’s bruises and before he can stop it Jim lets out a whine of pain that he will later deny was anything less than a manly grunt.

McCoy stops poking at him and finally, _finally_ looks him in the eye. Jim is surprised when anger is not what he finds looking back at him. Oh, Bones is glowering hard enough that Jim has the fleeting thought that he doesn’t want to have to deal with growing back singed eyebrows _again_ , but he’s actually surprised to see that Bones is _worried._ Not just ‘hey, buddy, are you feeling okay’ worried either, but full on, ‘adrenaline is making my insides do funny things,’ **worried.**

Now that Jim thinks about it, he didn’t exactly make the greatest entrance. McCoy had been working at his desk and had actually jumped when the door had slammed open and Jim and staggered in, bloodied and clutching his dislocated jaw. Flopping dramatically on his back and groaning probably hadn’t helped any. Nor had the fact that Jim couldn’t even tell Bones what had happened. In the time it had taken him to make it back to the room his jaw had swelled impressively and his mouth wouldn’t close properly. McCoy had been across the room in a flash, helping Jim onto the couch and fumbling for his medkit. He’d had to hypo him just to get his muscles to relax enough that he could manually reset the bone. Fuck.

Hissing a breath out between his teeth he gestures for a pen, a stylus, a chisel and hammer; anything that will allow him to communicate with his surly friend without undoing all his fine, and more importantly, painful work.

Bones stares at him a moment longer, leaving Jim to wonder exactly what is running through his head, before coming back with the desired writing implement.

 _Was an accident,_ Jim writes. _A misunderstanding. I’m fine._ This would be a lot easier if he wasn’t relatively certain that the last two fingers on his right hand were sprained. He isn’t going to tell Bones about that though.

Apparently he doesn’t need to. Bones has Jim’s hand in both of his and is turning it this way and that quicker than Jim could say… well anything, really.

“Accident my ass. Did you accidently punch the other guy in the face, too?” Jim is suddenly a little relieved he can’t talk. It saves him from having to tell Bones that the other guy was actually _three_ guys and that the injury was actually from landing on his hand funny because he never even got the chance to throw a punch.

McCoy doesn’t let Jim’s silence stop him. “Dammit Jim, quit movin’. You’re like a goddamn cocker spaniel, I swear.”

Jim’s lips twitch and he laughs, but suddenly finds himself in a world of pain as he simultaneously jostles his jaw and resplits his lip. Clenching his jaw against the pain wasn’t a good idea either. Whatever the hell Bones had jabbed him with earlier has worn off, that’s for sure. This time the sound he makes _is_ manly, he swears. In fact, it sounds like nothing so much as muffled cursing. Well, as close to cursing as you can get using only the letter m, anyway.

McCoy’s hand has found its way to the back of his neck and his face is six inches from Jim’s own. “Come on, Jim. I need to you to unclench a bit.”

Jim does as the doctor orders and the pain recedes. In fact, as long as Bones keeps his hand right there he’s pretty sure he’ll be feeling no pain for a while.

“That’s it, just like that.” McCoy continues in a gentle voice, “I need to relax your jaw.”

Jim’s mouth might not be working right now but his eyebrows sure as hell are and the look he gives Bones is downright pornographic. His eyebrows are waggling and he’s trying his damnedest to beam _I’ll bet you do_ directly into McCoy’s head. Judging by the flush that rises from under his collar, and the speed at which his hand whips off Jim’s neck, that transmission arrived loud and clear.

Of course, McCoy starts his lecture all over again but it is so, so worth it.

 

3.

McCoy is already up and eating his breakfast when Jim levers himself up from the couch-bed and shuffles past, still wrapped in his blanket. He’s pretty sure Jim missed the look on his face, thanks in part to the fact that he’s still at least 80% asleep but mostly due to the _giant blanket_ he’s got himself wrapped head to toe in.

“Mornin’, Jim,” he drawls.

“Mrnnnn,” replies the blanket.

McCoy raises an eyebrow, but this, too is lost on his amorphous friend as he locks himself in the bathroom.

When McCoy has finished his breakfast and done his dishes and Jim has still not come out of the bathroom, he begins to get annoyed. He gathers everything he needs for the day and goes to get dressed. When he comes out of his room still buttoning his last few buttons and Jim has _still_ not emerged, annoyance begins to be replaced by concern.

He gives a hesitant knock. “Jim? You still in there?”

The muffled answer is completely unintelligible, but he takes it as affirmation by simple virtue of it coming from the other side of the door.

“You fall in?”

Grunt.

He frowns. “You feelin’ alright?”

Double grunt. He’s pretty sure it was ‘I’m fine.’ Probably. Maybe.

“Okay, I gotta head out. Comm me if you need anything, alright?” McCoy leaves shaking his head at the disgusting domesticity of it all. Jim is probably just frittering away his morning trying to get his hair to look _just so._

When lunch rolls around McCoy heads for the mess hall. It’s Thursday and his lunch period matches up with Jim’s. At least three days a week, and whenever their schedules allow, they meet in the mess and they have lunch together. It’s not like they have a date, and they don’t talk about it; it just is.

Except it isn’t. Not today, because Jim’s not here. McCoy scans the crowd of faces twice and he’s certain that Jim’s is not among them. Dammit. There’s a whole list of reasons Jim might have missed lunch and not a one of them inspires warm, fuzzy feelings.

He eats his lunch alone. Some poor kid seems to be thinking about the empty seat across from him, but one look at the thundercloud over his head sends him heading clear across the room. McCoy hardly notices.

McCoy’s shift at the hospital cuts clean across the dinner hour, so he doesn’t think twice about not seeing Jim. It’s not until he’s home and Jim’s voice doesn’t immediately call out something welcoming and vaguely inappropriate that he realizes he hasn’t seen him all day; not since he shuffled by under a heap of bedding. And it could be argued that he hadn’t really seen _Jim_ then either so much as he’d seen a blanket with feet.

That probably means either Jim is laying in a ditch somewhere, missing a kidney; or he’s hiding from McCoy. He’s not sure which option he’s dreading more. Hell, maybe it’s both. He’s not sure what he did to deserve the sheer amount of _stress_ that boy causes him but he does know that whatever it is, he’s really, _really_ sorry.

He’s already got emergency medical supplies in one hand and his coat in the other and is half way back out the door when the bathroom opens and the blanket creature that ate his roommate emerges.

“Tell me you haven’t been in there all day.” He says it before he can think better of it but hell, that’s the way he says most things and he’s too set in his ways to try being tactful now. The blanket creature grunts and it’s top half shakes back and forth.

McCoy narrows his eyes. “You eat yet?” Another shake. “Did you even leave the apartment today?” Shake.

Heaving a rather put upon sigh, McCoy goes to the kitchen and comes back with a glass of juice which he sets on the end table by Jim’s couch-bed. “Alright, lets have it then. What did you do to yourself this time?”

Jim’s answering hum is petulant, and while it’s too muffled to make out individual words, McCoy has had enough experience by now with Jim’s policy of medical noncompliance to recognize it for the brush-off it is undoubtedly intended to be. _Oh,_ he thinks bitterly, _this is going to be fun._

His sigh rather articulately tells Jim what he thinks of this underwhelming show of maturity. Flopping down on the couch he asks, “Anything broken?” Shake. “Sprained?” Shake. “Bleeding? Bruised? Missing altogether?” Shake, shake, shake.

“Then dammit, Jim, why’re you hiding under a blanket?”

Silence.

“You know,” McCoy begins conversationally, “you’re a complete pain in my ass. I have a six-year-old who sulks less than you do. Let me know when you’re done pouting and you’re actually willing to behave like an adult for once.”

Jim freezes. Well, McCoy thinks he does anyway. He could be doing anything under there but the blanket stops moving and an awkward silence settles over them.

“You have a kid?” he croaks. It doesn’t even sound like Jim but McCoy barely registers that because _oh, right_ he hadn’t mentioned to his best friend that he has a daughter.

McCoy looks down at his hands and swallows. “Yeah. Joanna,” he says softly. It’s not that he purposely hadn’t told Jim about her. He just… missed her. It isn’t easy for him to talk about. And to be honest, sometimes thinking about the whole disastrous situation still fills him with levels of impotent rage at the universe – and spiteful Georgian ex-wives in particular – that put him at serious risk for stroking out.

When Jim doesn’t say anything he adds, “She’s in Georgia,” which is probably unnecessary because Jim’s been living here for months now and if Joanna had been _here_ he’d have noticed. And they wouldn’t be having this conversation. If only.

McCoy is surprised when all Jim says is “Oh.” He cottons on pretty fast though that this is because Jim’s throat is so raw that he can barely speak, hence all the grunting and nodding. They can play awkward confessions later; right now he wants to know what the hell is so wrong with his friend that he’s taken to wearing a shroud.

“So, you gonna tell me if you’re hurt or not?” he asks, as eager to change the subject as he is to get an answer.

“’Mnot,” is the reply and _Sweet Mother of GOD_ but he sounds awful.

“Then what the hell is wrong with you?” He undermines the harshness of his words by reaching for the glass of juice and handing it to Jim. When an arm snakes out and grabs the glass, McCoy is more amused than alarmed to see that it is covered in spots. _Varicella,_ he muses. Jim’s spent all day hiding from him because he’s got the goddamn chickenpox. This just confirms it; he really is a child.

“Jim,” he says, carefully keeping the laughter out of his voice, “Lemme see you.”

The hand snakes back out and waves before disappearing again.

He rolls his eyes. “All of you, Jim. Let me see all of you.”

There is a moment of silence and then the unmistakable sound of a zipper and McCoy is up and out of the room so fast you’d think someone had lit a fire under his ass.

Chickenpox isn’t deadly. Jim will be fine.

 

4.

Jim is up before McCoy today. It’s not unusual for McCoy to sleep in on days that he doesn’t have to juggle both classes and a shift at the hospital, and the academic year is over so that’ll most likely be everyday for the next three months. Jim can’t say he minds terribly. He might be missing waking up to coffee, already brewed and waiting, but it’s more than worth it in the end.

He settles himself at the table with some toast and the coffee he had to make himself and he waits.

It’s not very long before McCoy’s door opens and he stumbles out, still tugging a t-shirt over his head. His eyes are still heavy-lidded with sleep, he’s barefoot and scruffy and his hair is the kind of disaster that usually requires a concerted effort. Mmmm. Definitely worth it. Jims takes another sip of his coffee.

“Morning, Bones,” he greets sunnily.

“Coffee?” is his only acknowledgement.

“On the counter.”

“Hmmph.” It usually takes Bones about three quarters of the way through his first cup before he’s coherent. It’s a fascinating process and if McCoy didn’t usually rise before the sun it’s one Jim would watch on a regular basis.

McCoy slumps into the seat across from him and Jim doesn’t even bother to hide his appreciative gaze. Bones is rather single minded until he’s got some caffeine in him; he won’t notice.

They sit and drink their coffee in companionable silence until McCoy feels he is human again.

“So,” he says, setting his mug between them, “what’re your plans for the break?”

Jim just shrugs and crumbles what’s left of his toast. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. More to the point, he doesn’t want to have the conversation this one will inevitably turn into; the one about what he’s _not_ doing with his break, and why.

Apparently McCoy’s had just enough coffee to make him a bit of a dick because the next words out of his mouth are “You gonna go back to Iowa?”

Jim glares. Okay, he admits it, he doesn’t really talk to people about what he left behind when he got on the shuttle, but Bones has known him almost a year now. He knows better than to think Jim’s going back. So, it stands to reason that he’s not asking because he actually wants to know the answer, but because he’s trying to make a point.

“Whatever you’re trying to say, just say it.”

Bones scowls at him. It’s too early for this shit. _And the day started out so promising,_ he thinks.

“I cleaned out the front closet,” Bones says gruffly.

Jim stares blankly. That was… not what he was expecting. “What?”

Now Bones is looking at him like he’s drooled on himself. He hasn’t; he checked. “The closet by the front door. It’s empty now. Well, mostly anyway.”

“O…kay?”

McCoy rolls his eyes. “You’re going to have to move you stuff when they reassign your dorm room to somebody else. You already basically live here, dammit. Why bother getting another room to _not_ sleep in? You can put your stuff in the closet.” With that McCoy rises from his chair and goes back to his bedroom, leaving Jim looking bemused.

Wow, for all the grumbling that was actually kind of… sweet. That’s just Bones for you though. Cranky on the outside, but on the inside he’s delicious marshmallow fluff. Huh, that sounded kind of dirty, even in his head.

Bones does have a shift at the hospital in about an hour, and since he insists that toast is _not_ a complete breakfast he leaves the apartment early to grab food on the way. Jim figures now is as good a time as any to start moving his stuff.

He starts with the stuff that’s already piled on the bed he never uses and moves onto his shelves. When he’s spent a good hour pulling his things from his drawers and closet and under his bed, he’s actually a little impressed by how much he’s managed to accumulate in the ten months and change he’s been here. He thinks that maybe not actually _living_ in the room could have something to do with his failure to notice how crammed it’s become. No wonder Lewis still shot him dirty looks when he stopped by for clean clothes.

Getting it all moved across the campus to the apartment takes a few more hours still, and once it’s all there it’s like a puzzle trying to figure out how to get it all away in such a way that he can still get at anything without causing an avalanche. Somehow all he’s managed to do so far is scatter it across the room. Clothes are stacked and draped on furniture, books – the kind with actual pages – are distributed randomly across the floor, assorted bric-a-brac dots every flat surface in the room and there’s a guitar leaning haphazardly against the wingback in the corner.

And that’s how McCoy finds it when he comes home.

“What the fuck?”

Jim glances up from where he’s sitting cross-legged in the only two square-feet on empty floor. “Hey, Bones!”

“Jim, what the hell _is_ all this shit?” He doesn’t move from where he’s standing by the door. He doesn’t know where he’d put his feet.

“My stuff,” Jims says like he has just asked him what color the sky is.

“I gathered that, jackass. Where the hell did it come from? Didn’t you ride into town with only the clothes on your back?”

Jim opens his mouth to answer him but something else has already caught McCoy’s attention. “A _guitar?_ Do you even play the guitar?”

Jim just grins and shrugs.

McCoy shakes his head and he seems to have found an empty spot on the floor because he begins to pick his way across the room. He stops half way through when he realizes he doesn’t know where he’s going. His eyes rest on the couch, which is covered in clothes, bags and the odd electronic device.

Jim follows his gaze. “I haven’t sorted that stuff yet.”

McCoy raises an eyebrow and looks pointedly around the room. Every surface is covered and _none_ of it looks sorted. He glances at the chair in the corner but before he can move Jim says, “Or that stuff.”

“Fine! Where do you want me then?” he demands.

Jim looks him over, top to bottom and then to the open door of McCoy’s bedroom, where the bed is clearly visible. For some reason, it leaves McCoy feels thoroughly debauched. Jim opens his mouth to answer the question and then seems to think better of it.

“Right,” says McCoy, rolling his eyes. “I’m going out. I expect to be able to actually walk across the floor when I get back.”

Even after the door closes, Jim can hear him grumbling about small children leaving their toys “all over the goddamn place” and he smiles.

 

5.

Jim’s idea of going to see live music is fast and loud and has bodies pressing in on all sides and alcohol flowing freely. It is not sitting in a dimly lit, sparsely populated room listening to quiet guitar and some crooning art school student. The only way this plan resembled his idea of a _night out_ was the promise of alcohol.

But it was what Bones wanted to do and, though he might deny it, there was almost nothing Jim wouldn’t do if it made Bones happy. When Bones is happy he smiles and really, Jim’s motivations for wanting to see that smile aren’t _completely_ altruistic. It’s a very _sexy_ smile.

So, somehow, Jim has agreed he’ll spend his evening in a jazzy bar, sitting just close enough to Bones to drive him absolutely crazy, watching him sip bourbon and smile and… _fuck._ He’s getting hard just _thinking_ about it. This is going to be torture.

He has about half an hour before they have to leave and Bones isn’t even home yet. A cold shower is probably in order.

Except that as soon as he gets the water running, before he’s even undressed, he hears the door open and slam shut. He can hears Bones’ heavy steps in the living room and that’s all it takes to make his cock twitch again.

A cold shower just isn’t going to cut it. If he’s going to make it through the night without embarrassing himself or dying of sexual frustration, preventative measures need to be taken. It’d be one thing if he could just go get his rocks off somewhere, but he can’t do that in good conscience anymore. And believe it, he’s tried.

For some reason every time he so much as _thinks_ about going home with somebody else, Bones’ face pops into his head. Who is he kidding? He knows the reason. But it doesn’t change the fact that he hasn’t been laid in four months and all Bones has to do it look at him and he’s at half-mast, just waiting for the word go.

I never comes though. Bones never responded to his overt flirting, so he stopped the constant innuendo and sexual suggestion, thinking maybe _that_ would get his attention. Maybe he’d take him seriously. Hell, maybe he’d think something was wrong with him and give him a full physical exam. If the only way he can get Bones to pay attention to him is when he’s taking his temperature… _Then you’d ask for the rectal thermometer,_ he thinks to himself.

Jim is feeling a little attention starved.

“Jim, you in there?” Bones’ voice cuts across the sound of the running water and he starts.

“Yeah, man. What’s up?” Back in present time, Jim shucks his pants and shirt and reaches into the shower to test the temperature of the water. He cranks up the temperature a bit. Warmer water is more conducive to the… measures he needs to take to ensure his continued sanity through the evening.

“You eat yet?” Bones calls through the door.

Jim can imagine him standing just on the other side, craning to hear an answer to his question. He glances down at himself, wearing only his briefs and socks. Well, this was helping move things along at least.

“No, not yet. I figured we’d get something on the way,” he hollers back as he steps under the spray.

Bones continues to talk to him through the door but exactly what about Jim isn’t sure. It’s hard to hear when your head is under water but the rhythm of his voice is having what is no doubt an unintended effect and Jim is almost completely hard now. He makes what he hopes are appropriately encouraging noises at Bones and wraps his hand firmly around his erection, stroking with his thumb.

He lets his eyes fall shut and his shoulders loosen and he begins stroking out a slow, steady rhythm. The water flows over him and Bones’ grumbling about his day flows through him and he begins to lose himself in the pressure and friction of his own hand. It’s… really, really nice. Especially once the movie in his head starts playing.

It’s a work of pure fiction but a masterpiece nonetheless (if Jim does say so himself.) Playing out behind his eyelids in light and color is Bones, joining him in the bathroom, still talking about his day. Jim smirks as he imagines Bones bitching as he sheds his clothes in quick, efficient movements; joining him in the shower, under the hot spray. He lets his head fall back, imagining Bones’ slick skin sliding past his own. He groans and tightens his grip on his cock.

Bones pushing Jim’s chest against the smooth tile, their bodies pressed hard together; Bones kissing, licking and sucking and biting – his neck, his shoulder, the hollow between them; teeth scraping skin, nipping and tasting. Bones’ hands running down his sides, across hip, pulling Jim tight against him; Bones’ hand grasping him, stroking him.  
It’s Bones’ hand on his dick now and he can’t stop his hips from rocking; he doesn’t try. The sound he makes can only be described as a moan.

The Bones in the living room is railing against _something_ , probably the idiots he’s surrounded by at the hospital unless Jim misses his guess. Meanwhile, the Bones in his head is reaching for “that ridiculous, fruity, girl conditioner” Jim uses; spreading it on his hands, through Jim’s hair, wrapping a slick fist around Jim’s hard-on and… _God._

Jim doesn’t even register the silence that’s descended over the bathroom; the only sounds are the water and the sounds of his own harsh breathing. He thrusts rhythmically into his own hand as he imagines Bone’s other hand sliding down, over his back, over his ass….

“Dammit, Jim!” Jim’s eyes pop open at the sound of Bones – the _real_ Bones – bellowing through the door, but he doesn’t stop the motion of his hand. “Would you get a move on? If you want to come with me you better hurry up!”

Let it never be said that James T. Kirk can’t follow direction.

 

6.

By the time Jim gets out of the shower Bones is ready and waiting for him. _Because_ that _doesn’t make my mind go to a dirty place,_ Jim thinks. He’s sitting cross-legged in the corner chair with a PADD in his hand, dressed in a gray button up and a pair of slacks.

Bones doesn’t look up at him, just says “We should head out pretty soon,” and continues reading.

Jim’s eyes run the length of Bones legs. He can’t tell from this angle but he’d bet good money that they make his ass look awesome. He heaves a mental sigh and opens his closet. _Guess a t-shirt’s out then,_ he thinks ruefully.

He pulls the one button-up he owns off its hanger, thankful it’s clean and not in the laundry. _Of course it’s clean; what else would it be?_ It isn’t like he ever wears the damn thing. Pants, however, are proving to be a bit of a problem. Apparently, he doesn’t actually _own_ any slacks. Or anything that’s not jeans or uniform for that matter.

He throws a quick glance over his shoulder at Bones, who is still deeply absorbed in whatever it is he’s deeply absorbed in. He grabs a pair of Bones’ slacks and heads back into the bathroom to get changed. If Bones was going to drag him out someplace he actually had to dress up, the least the guy could do was provide a pair of pants.

When he comes back out, groomed and gorgeous (even if he does say so himself) Bones raises one eyebrow at his attire but chooses to remain silent. He just opens the door and gestures Jim through it before following him into the corridor. Now it’s Jim’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“What?” Bones demands. “Some of us have manners.”

Jim holds his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t say anything… Rhett.” Jim flutters his eyelashes at Bones and smiles prettily.

If looks could kill the one McCoy shoots his way might. But apparently it just sort of tickles because Jim’s grin broadens until his eyes crinkle in the corners and there’s a bounce in his step as they continue on their way.

They set out on foot, enjoying the cool air and when they arrive at their destination, it both is and isn’t what Jim expects. It’s still dimly lit and the music is softer than his normal fare but he’s surprised to find it’s actually a restaurant more than a bar. The alcohol is still present and abundant, (thank God) but they’re given a full menu and escorted to a small table. And the menu has things other than hot wings and fries on it.

Well. Isn’t this extravagant?

They place theirs orders and sit in companionable silence, listening to the music. It’s better than Jim had feared it would be and the atmosphere is nice, if surprisingly intimate. Not that Jim’s complaining, he’s just suddenly grateful for the cautionary… actions he took before leaving the apartment.

Jim is mostly watching the small raised platform they’re calling a stage, but from time to time he can feel Bones’ eyes on him. When he looks over however he is greeted by the sight of Bones, relaxed and comfortable in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He looks content. This is so worth it.

Their food arrives and they chat and joke. He tells Bones about the kid in one of his xenolinguistics classes that mistranslated the assignment and ended up telling the instructor that his mother had honorable testicles – in Klingon. He manages to get more than a smile out of his captious dinner partner and all in all he’s feeling pretty good. Chalk this one up to a win.

Bones is just settling into a story about some apparently hilarious – and frankly kind of morbid – mix-up at the hospital when a blond woman appears by their table and he stops mid-sentence.

“Leonard! I thought that was you!” She seems pleased to see Bones at any rate. And if his smile is any indication, he’s rather happy to see her as well.

“Christine! What are you doing here?” Bones laughs in surprise; actually _laughs!_

“Oh, here with a friend.” She gestures back toward the door where another blond woman is standing. Jim thinks he recognizes her from one of his classes but he’s really not sure. “Saw you over here and thought I’d pop over and say hi. Who’s your friend?” She asks with a significant nod in Jim’s direction.

“Oh! Sorry ‘bout that. Christine, this is Jim Kirk. Jim, Christine Chapel. She’s a nurse at the hospital.”

Jim nods politely but says nothing. It’s on the tip of his tongue to teasingly ask about what Bones is like at work – well, what Bones is like at work when he’s not bitching about having to patch Jim up, anyway because he _knows_ what that’s like – but for some reason that he doesn’t want to examine too closely, he’s not feeling that gracious right now.

Apparently he doesn’t need to. Christine’s eyebrow catapult up her forehead and her significant nod becomes a significant look. “It’s a pleasure. I’ve heard all about you.”

Jim doesn’t wince; something he mentally pats himself on the back for. Under normal circumstances he’d turn that into an opportunity to flirt, but with Bones sitting across from him, staring at him, it just doesn’t feel right. He musters a relatively charming retort about not believing everything you hear and forces a smile. He doesn’t miss the sharp look Bones gives him but he does ignore it.

“Well,” Christine says turning back to Bones, “I hope you boys have fun.” Leaning closer to him she stage whispers, “He’s adorable,” and then she’s gone and they’re alone. It’s hard to tell in the dim light but Jim is relatively certain that Bones is blushing. Furiously.

Their conversation through the rest of their meal is stilted and awkward. Bones is both polite and attentive and Jim is just about to ask him if he’s dying when he resumes his story that had been interrupted by the arrival of Christine. Jim was right, it’s both hilarious and completely morbid. When the time comes to settle their bill Jim reaches for it, but a disapproving look from Bones stops him. Maybe he _is_ dying.

It’s colder outside than it was then they arrived and he sees Bones shudder slightly at the chill. It’s been almost a year now and the weather is still too much for Bones’ delicate Georgia constitution. A fact Jim teases him about often.

“C’mon, let’s take a walk.” Bones starts off down the street and Jim follows at a jog, wondering how long his friend has to live and who’s going to tell his daughter.

They walk in silence, heading down a path a good hundred feet from the water, until the quiet starts to get to Jim, which is never good. He invariably ends up blurting something out to fill the silence and it’s almost never something he actually wants to say out loud. Now appears to be no exception to this rule.

“You should just go for it, you know?” He doesn’t turn to look at Bones, but out of the corner of his eye he can clearly see that he’s wearing a look that says he doesn’t. Despite that, Jim can’t bring himself to continue.

“Go for what?” Bones finally asks.

“It’s just, you shouldn’t be miserable. If you find somebody that makes you happy, you should go for it. You should go for it and just… be happy.”

Bones looks mildly surprised but seems to be listening raptly. He’s turned toward Jim slightly and looks like he’s waiting for him to continue. He doesn’t. He doesn’t know what to say.

Bones stops walking and it takes Jim’s brain a couple of steps to catch up. He swings back around and they stand there in silence, studying each other.

Jim looks at his feet before meeting Bones’ eyes. “She likes you.”

The look on the doctor’s face clearly says he’s trying to figure out where he lost the conversation. “Who does?” Dawning understanding. “Christine? You think _Christine_ likes me?” The subsequent _What’re you, crazy?_ goes unsaid but Jim swears he hears it all the same.

Now it’s Jim’s turn to look surprised. “What the hell did you think I meant?”

He has an answer; Jim knows he does. He watches as his mouth opens to reply before he snaps it shut with a – God, is that a _hurt_ look?

“Forget it. Lets go home.” Bones turns to go back the way they came but Jim wraps his fingers around his bicep and stops him.

“Hey! Fine, forget Christine. I just…” he takes a deep breath and continues, “You laughed. I like seeing you laugh. Whatever it takes to get you to laugh more, you should do it. Just take some initiative for Christ’s sake!” God, why did he think this was a good idea? This was a really terrible idea. One of his worst, possibly.

Bones is staring _into_ him, he’s sure and his jaw is working furiously, clenching and unclenching. Finally he looks away.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Jim nods, because right now that is one of the few things he is very sure of. Bones continues like he hadn’t responded at all. “You want me to take some fucking initiative? What the hell do you think I’ve been doing all night?”

_What?_

“But apparently,” Bones rails on, “I’m too fucking subtle for James Kirk. How’s this for initiative?” Bones’ warm hand snaked around the back of his neck and soft lips press against his own. It’s surprisingly gentle considering the vehemence of the speech preceding it.

For a second Jim does the only thing he can think of – nothing. He snaps out of it quickly enough and kisses back. Energetically. God, Bones has some fantastic lips. And – for a guy that’s lived basically as a monk for as long as Jim’s known him – a surprisingly good kisser.

Jim is breathing heavily through his nose but he’s unwilling to part from Bones lips. Unfortunately, Bones doesn’t seem to have mastered this technique and he pulls back, breathing hard. Jim lets his hand drop from Bones’ hair. He’s not even sure when it got there. Jesus.

Bones clears his throat and Jim realizes he’s been staring. When he speaks his voice is surprisingly gravely. “So… home?”

He gets no argument – he didn’t expect any – and the walk home is a blur. By the time they get to the door it’s all Jim can do to keep his hands to himself. Once the door opens he stops trying and this time he’s the one to pull Bones to him.

Bones kisses him back eagerly and as the doors slides closed Jim presses him against the wall. His lips trail across Bones cheek, to his jaw, over the rough stubble and he places an open mouthed kiss behind his ear. Bones grunts and he bucks against Jim’s hip.

“I have to say,” Jim murmurs hotly against Bones’ skin, “I approve of your initiative.”

“Thought you might,” Bones gasps, tilting his head out of Jim’s way. “Really, really hoped you might.” He jerks when Jim nips at his jaw and pushes him away. Jim doesn’t have time to protest before he’s being pushed back to the couch and Bones is on top of him.

His mouth slides against Bones’ and he feels a tongue sweep over his lower lip. It suddenly dawns on him that half an hour ago he was pushing this man at someone else. The thought causes a bubble of hysteria to well in his chest but he tamps it down. He’d have to let go of Bones to let it out and that isn’t about to happen any time soon.

Bones’ fingers slide softly up the back of his neck and into his hair, cradling his head. He nips at Bones’ lips and immensely pleased to note the catch in his breathing. He’s even more pleased when Bones’ hips roll against his own, pressing them into the couch.

He rucks Bones’ shirt up under his arms and runs his hands over the skin exposed. Placing one hand in the small of his back and the other on his hip, he pulls him tighter. Bones take the hint and rubs harder against him.

He couldn’t say how long they stayed like that, kissing and touching. His fingers are in Bones’ hair and he’s completely engrossed when Bones pulls back again.

“Stop doing that; I’m trying to kiss you here,” he groans and attaches himself to Bones’ neck.

Bones makes a sound that would be a chuckle if he could find his breath. “Jim,” he pants, “it’s late. We should go to bed.”

Jim makes a sound in his throat which is meant to be disagreement but apparently Bones takes it as acquiescence because he is pulling away from Jim and walking into his bedroom. Jim’s mouth falls open. _Seriously? That’s it?_ He’s going to need another shower – his third of the day. This is just getting ridiculous.

His mouth snaps shut when Bones pokes his head back out into the living room with a puzzled look on his face, “Jim, what the hell are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Get your ass in here.”

Well, there is no mistaking _that_ , is there? _Sir, yes sir,_ Jim thinks as he scrambles to catch up. He stops dead in the doorway when he sees that Bones already has his shirt off and pants unbuttoned, his bare feet poking out from the beneath them. _Holy fuck._

He lives with the guy; he’s seen him in further states of undress than this, but something about knowing he’s taking his clothes off for _him_ is incredibly hot. He lets out the breath that is caught in his chest and makes his way to Bones. He looks good but Jim’d bet he feels even better.

He’s not wrong.

“Why is it,” Bones grumbles as he tugs Jim’s shirt out from his waistband and begins on the buttons, “that you turn every damn thing I say into a come-on, but when I finally actually make a move, you stand there like a fish?”

“Force of habit,” Jim replies as he peels the shirt off his shoulders. Chucking it to the side, he closes the gap between them until they are pressed chest to chest. He can feel Bones’ warm breath on his skin as he leans down to press a kiss to his neck. “I got used to wanting but not touching.”

Bones snorts against his shoulder. “You touch all the goddamn time. You’re the handsiest bastard I’ve ever met.” And it was true. Jim was very tactile by nature and with Bones in particular he’d always had a strict policy of take whatever you can get.

“Yeah, but a pat on the back isn’t exactly getting into your pants, is it?” God, Bones skin was hot, despite the cool air outside and Jim wanted to run his hands over _all_ of it.

“I think you’ll find you’re already in my pants,” Bones says drily with a pointed look at the slacks Jim had… borrowed. “At this point you’d probably do better to get out of them.”

Jim doesn’t need to be asked twice and Bones eyes follow his every movement from under heavy lids as he kicks off his shoes and peels off his pants and socks. Bones doesn’t make a move to remove his own pants, which are tented impressively; just leans against his dresser and watches appreciatively. Jim takes his time; watching Bones watch him is its own kind of sexy and there’s no way he’s going to rush this experience.

He pauses for just moment before stripping off his underwear as well and he doesn’t miss the subtle change from aroused interest to outright lust on Bones’ face as his erection bobs free. Nor does he miss the muttered “fuck.”

Bones quickly grabs something from his top drawer and slams it shut again. As Jim moves to get on the bed a hand on his hip stops him and Bones pulls him back tight against him. Jim can feel how hard he is, pressed against his ass. He bucks his hips back, eliciting a groan from Bones.

Then he can feel Bones’ hot mouth on the back of his neck and then it is moving down his spine. Bones’ hands are pushing him down until he stands with his feet on the floor and his hands braced on the bed. The snap of a plastic cap explains what Bones was grabbing from his dresser and Jim is relatively certain it’s not even possible for him to get any harder at this point.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Bones murmurs and Jim gives an incredulous laugh.

“That’s not gonna happen, trust me.”

Bones takes him at his word and begins to spread lube between the cheeks of Jim’s ass, over the ring of muscle there. All the while he is alternating between rubbing his back with his other hand and pressing kisses to Jim’s hot skin. Jim’s whole body is taught with anticipation and just when he can’t take standing still anymore, he feels a finger slide inside him.

“God, Bones. Fuck.” Not the most profound thing he’s ever said but all the syllables are in the right place, which is probably more than could be hoped.

Another finger slides into him and he moans – manfully, of course – as he rocks back against Bones’ hand. Bone’s other hand slides to the small of his back and after a minute another finger joins the first two.

Jim spreads his legs further and begins to rock back in earnest, fucking himself on Bones’ hand. He is panting and sweat has broken out over his skin and _God, yeah. Like that._

And then Bones pulls out of him and Jim’s groan is one of protest instead of pleasure. He hears the sound of a zipper and he flops down on the bed to watch Bones undress. And what a sight it is.

Bones is breathing hard and his intense gaze locks onto Jim’s face and doesn’t leave while he strips his remaining clothes off in quick, impatient motions. Jim centers himself on the bed and lifts his knees up, legs apart. That draws Bones' eyes from his face and they eagerly take in the sight of Jim, ready and waiting for him.

He wastes no time in joining Jim on the bed. Soon he is on top of him but instead of picking up where he left off, he takes Jim’s mouth in a hard kiss. It’s wet and incredibly hot and he settles between Jim’s thighs, rocking gently against him.

Jim hums appreciatively when Bones’ cock touches his own and he thrusts against him. Clearly Bones gets the message because he reaches between them and give Jim a few swift strokes before breaking the kiss to grab the lube off the nightstand where he’d left it.

He pours the lube onto his fingers and strokes it over himself in quick, efficient movements. Jim can honestly say it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. Bones give Jim a fast kiss, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. Then he is leaning back again, his knees bent under Jim’s thighs as he positions himself at Jim’s entrance.

He looks him in the eye as he presses into him. Jim feels the pressure give way into a stretching feeling and he realizes he’s stopped breathing. Again.

“Oh, fuck.” Bones seems to take that as encouragement and he withdraws slightly before pressing back in, deeper this time. He does this once more and then with a snap of his hips he is fully seated inside Jim. And Jim, for his part, is relatively sure his eyes have rolled back into his head.

Bones hitches Jim’s legs higher on his hips and begins to thrust deeply. They set up a rhythm, which Bones mimics with his slick hand tight on Jim’s cock. They are both breathing hard and _oh_ Jim’s not going to _fuckfuckfuck_ last long.

“Come on,” Bones grunts, “I want you to come for me, Jim.”

Jim arches his neck, his head pressing back into his pillow. Bones’ pillow. His fists are full of the bedding and he can’t relax his fingers enough to let go. Can’t spare them the attention to try. All his attention is focused on the warm hand stroking him and Bones pounding into him. He can feel it coming and he begins to buck more frantically. It’s right within his grasp.

He’s pretty sure he’s making a fair bit of noise, too. He can hear “Oh, oh God, Bones, please,” and he’s at least ninety percent certain it’s coming out of his mouth. He’s not sure what he’s asking for but Bones seems to figure it out and his pace increases and the angle changes and _God, keep doing_ that.

Jim feels his balls tighten and muscles clench and he comes over Bones’ hand. Apparently Bones feels it too because his pace falters and he lets out a soft ‘uh’ sound before picking his rhythm again, a little slower this time as Jim rides out his orgasm.

Bones is not far behind him. Jim watches as his eyes slam shut and he lets out a shuddering breath through his nose. His shoulders tighten and his movements become jerky before he finally groans and slows and then finally stops moving altogether. He pulls out, flipping onto the bed beside Jim.

For several minutes the only sound is their ragged breathing. Then, without opening his eyes Bones asks “How’s that for initiative?”

“Awesome.” Jim turns his head to see Bones more clearly and can’t quite keep the smug smile off his face. “How d’you feel.”

“Exhausted. You?”

“Thoroughly Boned.” And Bones laughs.

Jim smiles back at him. "You should definitely do that more often."

Bones heaves a deep sigh. "I do have a refractory period, you know. But, if you insist..." Bones rolls back on top of him and captures his mouth in a slow, lazy kiss.

"Yeah, that too," Jim murmurs against his lips.

end


End file.
